Thursday, May 31, 2012

Sun Sorcery

Came down stairs as the sun was rising, washing the grass in dew drenched light. Tried to get the pets fed fast enough to get a photo as it popped over the edge of the old horse pasture. Alas, too slow, too old, too mired in morning critter routine. It was up like a ruby orange before I got there.

It turned the mountains ghostly pink then lit them up all fiery bright. Sun plus dew turns ordinary grass to silver thread.... alchemy, alchemy, where is the witch?

Two gold finches sat on asparagus threads, riding them right to the ground, then bouncing up again like kids on a good springy branch. They were eating something, God knows what.

Shakespeare couldn't write all the dawning drama in the trees and hedgerows, singing, loving, fighting, guarding eggs, stealing eggs, hummers dodging and darting like fighters. they sound like little boys with toy cars as they zip by my ear. I think they have accepted my presence on the porch....it can be disconcerting when they treat you like just another tree.

Ww, that is really nice to hear. Thanks. the older I get, the more I enjoy the little stuff.

Ed, mornings are the best this time of year! I get up long before I have to just to enjoy them'

Caroline, the stuff we did as kids! Sure didn't need computers and fancy phones to have fun!

Rev. Paul, thank you!

Jan, thank you. That is something I don't know anything about, but it sounds like an interesting idea. We did look into putting some land into conservation reserve and letting them build ponds and such, but the red tape and regulations were insane so we let it drop.

Deb, I'll bet you are right. We have a big patch right by the porch that I assume they planted since we didn't. lol

And that lovely photo and description of gold finches riding the asparagus threads . . . Brought back one of Frost's great poems -' Birches.'

" . . I should prefer to have some boy bend themAs he went out and in to fetch the cows—Some boy too far from town to learn baseball,Whose only play was what he found himself,Summer or winter, and could play alone.One by one he subdued his father's treesBy riding them down over and over againUntil he took the stiffness out of them,And not one but hung limp, not one was leftFor him to conquer. He learned all there wasTo learn about not launching out too soonAnd so not carrying the tree awayClear to the ground. He always kept his poiseTo the top branches, climbing carefullyWith the same pains you use to fill a cupUp to the brim, and even above the brim.Then he flung outward, feet first, with a swish,Kicking his way down through the air to the ground.So was I once myself a swinger of birches.And so I dream of going back to be. . . "

Cathy, oh, thank you! I had read that poem back in school...we read a lot of Frost, as everyone should still today...and loved that one. However I had forgotten all about it, having gotten stuck on "Two roads diverged" in my memory.

Linda, thank you. I am grateful for every visit and for your always encouraging comments. It is a regret to me that Colorado is so darned far from upstate NY